


The Things You Find in the Rain

by umadoshi (Ysabet)



Category: Newsflesh Trilogy - Mira Grant, Sparrow Hill Road - Seanan McGuire
Genre: (oral) sex with strangers, Crossover, F/M, Ghosts, Hitchhiking, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Post-Zombie Apocalypse, SEE NOTES FOR SPOILER INFO, posting a ghost story for Hallowe'en, road ghosts, zombie-free
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:12:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5109068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysabet/pseuds/umadoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I hop up onto the passenger seat and shut the door, listening to the locks slide home. "I'm Rose."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Shaun," he says.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Weren't you going the other way?" I ask. "Guess you're in no hurry, seeing as you turned around."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>He shrugs, eyes on the road. "Nowhere in particular I need to be. May as well give someone else a hand. Where you headed?"</i>
</p>
<p>Set between <i>Feed</i> and <i>Deadline</i>.</p>
<p><b>This story contains major spoilers for <i>Feed</i></b>, but none for the rest of the <i>Newsflesh</i> trilogy. It has no spoilers for <i>Sparrow Hill Road</i>.</p>
<p>Content note: Rose Marshall has been a ghost for nearly a century in this story, and is very much above the age of consent, but be aware that her appearance hasn't changed since she died at age sixteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things You Find in the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> \--Title from Tori Amos' "Yes, Anastasia" (slightly modified)
> 
> \--Beta work by wildpear

_For a lot of ghosts--maybe most types--having zombies come lurching out of modern fairy tales and into reality didn't make a big difference to their afterlives._

_For road ghosts, they changed the landscape._

_For hitchers like me, the Rising made an impact like a crater hitting the highway. Most people stopped driving anywhere if they could help it, and the folks who did drive stopped slowing down, never mind opening their doors to hitchhikers. They stopped handing their coats to the shivering waif on the shoulder of the road, stopped giving her more warmth through flesh and blood than any piece of clothing could._

_Hardly anyone ever touched strangers anymore, although humans being humans, a hand up into the cab of a long-haul truck was **less** likely than an anonymous fuck in the back._

_Burgers--real burgers, red meat seeping grease and oozing cheese--disappeared off every menu in the world. They were still on offer at the Last Dance and other diners on the ghostroads, but the lack of them up in the sunlight stung, even if it was a smaller blow than the way fewer people on the roads meant fewer people willing to buy a meal for the hungry-eyed girl seated next to them at a diner counter._

_And sure, let's not forget the detail where being incorporeal makes it pretty damn tricky to take a blood test and prove you're not the kind of living dead they're scared of._

_The dead rose, body but no soul, in 2014, when I'd been walking around, all soul and no body, for sixty years. By 2015 or 2016, I was tempted for the first time since my death to catch a ride past the Last Dance and see what waited for me down that way. I barely recognized the world, and I wasn't any too eager to see what it was like to get myself infected with Kellis-Amberlee and die and rise, and maybe wake up with the sun and with the memory of chowing down on meat and blood that tasted like sawdust._

_But other than my real name, or the names attached to my hauntings--both the filthy lies and the names with a dash of truth--what I've been called most is probably "stubborn little bitch", and by God, no fucking zombie apocalypse was driving me off until I was good and ready. So what if it meant spending a lot more time in the twilight, partly for convenience and partly because road fatalities had dropped exponentially?_

_It was still my world, after a fashion. Those were still my roads. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to survive, and if that meant learning a whole new set of scripts that involved talking coats out of people and _then_ getting jabbed in the hand by those boxes of tiny needles, then that's what I was going to do. That's what I did._

_Ghost stories still spread--God bless the internet--and the rumors about the girl at the diner, about the ghost of Sparrow Hill Road, all those names that people remembered now that "Rose Marshall" was long forgotten, they all changed a bit, slowly. I hitched more in the winter, in the rain, in any weather that made folks take pity and toss a coat out through an open car door, a gun trained on me the whole time._

_I learned to love the people who lived to spite the rules even more than I always had before._

 

\--------  
 **January 2041**  
\--------

It's raining like hell on the California highway I've been walking along for hours, my thumb out long past the point a live hitchhiker would've had her hands shoved deep in her wet-through pockets for any shred of warmth they might still provide. But me, I'm cold to my nonexistent bones no matter what, and the rain's passing through me; my thumb stays out because the rulebook I follow says it has to be.

I look like a drowned rat, of course. These days you're lucky if even one vehicle an hour goes tearing by, but the show must go on for the sake of any audience member whose eye might light on the player, even if the sight of a person on the roadside makes most folks speed up, not slow down.

It's been more hours than I want to think about, even by the standards of this zombie-infested day and age. Fortunately, even though the living (and by extension, the living dead) can see and hear me, they can't _smell_ me while I'm incorporeal. And with no sense of pain left to tell them that the sunlight scorches their vulnerable retinas, only the newest shamblers have much sight to go by. So when I see a zombie, I keep my mouth shut and pass on by, quiet as a mouse, and they've got no idea I'm there.

Just as well. Not that they'd be able to hurt me, but the last thing I need is an entourage shuffling after and swiping at me, like I'm some pied piper for the undead. It's hard enough to catch a break when I'm the only thing moving as far as the eye can see.

It's getting on towards dusk when a van barrels down the highway at breakneck speed--a speed with which I'm _very_ familiar, given my line of work--going the opposite of my way. I sigh and keep walking, feeling my already-scant odds of scoring a ride dwindling by the minute as the rain-smeared sky gets even grayer with impending dark. Drivers just plain don't stop once the sun is down anymore. They can't get a good enough look at me to feel safe, even though a blood test'll say I'm clean and common sense says no zombie's gonna be keeping to the shoulder of the road, thumb prodding the air.

It's tempting to step off the highway entirely and down to the ghostroads, see if I can score a conversation or a bite of pie--anything to break the monotony. But the monotony's what's kept me from hitching for longer than I should, since it's been weeks since I've had to usher any souls along.

I keep on walking.

Then the sound of an engine catches up with me just before its source does, and it's the same van I saw going the other way. The driver must've gone to the next opening between the north- and southbound sides of the highway and pulled a U-turn, coming back for me. That's not necessarily a great sign for someone's intentions. The milk of human kindness has gotten more plentiful in some ways since the Rising, but in other ways it seems to have soured completely.

The passenger-side window opens halfway as the van pulls to a stop beside me, and the driver and I peer at each other, mutually suspicious. The first words out of his mouth are, "I'm the last person who should say shit like this, but are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Nope," I say, letting him see wariness along with my general soddenness and how deeply, genuinely _cold_ I am. "Just trying to get someplace safe."

"You clean?" he asks. Once upon a time it would've been not-so-subtle code for "will I catch something when I take you in the back and fuck you?" Now it's less weighted with judgment--no one's so much worried about the clap, and honestly, most people won't condemn you for wanting a ride even if you've got reason to think you're on the verge of amplifying. They'll test your blood and shoot you in the head without batting an eye, mostly, but that's self-preservation, not an inability to understand the desperation to stay alive, the denial that your life's about to end.

"Sure am." I don't move towards the van. I don't ask if _it's_ a safe place for me--riding with some guy who might only be looking to take advantage of a girl he finds on the roadside is still safer than being outside at night, by most people's standards. Most girls in my apparent position wouldn't dither, might already be grabbing hopefully for the door handle. But the cold rain gives me an excuse to ask, as I hunch my shoulders, "Do you have a sweater or something? My hands won't stop shaking." Shaking hands make a blood test take longer, depending on the model.

A hesitation, but then: "Yeah." The window slides shut, leaving the van impregnable. I'm not what you'd call an expert on anti-zombie vehicular security, but it's hard to mistake a vehicle as secure as that one. The door opens a minute later and a sweater comes flying out. I grab it from the air and wrestle it on, practically swimming in the thick wool. Seated, the driver doesn't look all that tall, but he's broad-shouldered and I'm what might generously be called "a slip of a thing".

"Thanks," I say, wrapping my hands in the ends of the sleeves, even though the flesh and blood I'm wearing now provide more warmth than any garment. I chafe my hands together anyway, then straighten up and get him to walk me through the blood test.

He doesn't point a gun at me, but I can see at least two in easy reach, and I'd bet everything he knows how to use them like he knows how to breathe. I test clean, hop up onto the passenger seat, and shut the door, listening to the locks slide home. "I'm Rose."

"Shaun," he says.

"Weren't you going the other way?" I ask. "Guess you're in no hurry, seeing as you turned around."

He shrugs, eyes on the road. "Nowhere in particular I need to be. May as well give someone else a hand. Where you headed?"

I name a destination several hours away, wanting to know up front if he's willing to drive through the night, which I'd call a _very_ generous hand under any circumstances. Shaun just nods and reaches down by his seat without looking or slowing, and fishes a can of Coke up. There's a moment's hesitation that strikes me as peculiar, although I can't put my finger on it--maybe as simple as "what kind of man's willing to go so far out of his way but then gets stingy with his food?"--before he says, "Want one?"

It's not coffee, but I'll take it. I accept the can he's holding and pop the tab while he grabs a second can for himself. He opens it one-handed and takes a deep swallow.

"Still tastes like crap," he mutters to himself, quiet but audible.

After that he falls silent, giving me plenty of time to study him from the corner of my eye. I spot more weapons on and around him--not concealed, but like the guns I spotted first, they're all stashed in ways that suggest he could kill me or anything else before I could say "Boo". That's comforting to lots of people, these days. The twenty-odd years since the Rising haven't been enough to get me wholly used to it.

Shaun looks maybe twenty-five, and given how the type of shadows he's got in and under his eyes age a man, I'm guessing a bit younger still. Around those eyes I can see the faintest beginnings of what might've become laugh lines one day, but there's a weariness to his face that speaks to an exhaustion of the soul and a lack of laughter, not sleep deprivation.

"Sorry for the lack of conversation," he says abruptly. "I'm not used to having a passenger." Then he does laugh, but it's low and not like anything's funny. "Not a live one, anyway."

I swallow my first response-- _"Got many dead ones?"_ \--and say, "Sounds like a story there, but I'm not one to pry. Just glad to be out of the wet."

"Thanks," Shaun says, in a way that sounds like there's more words to follow. But none do, not for a long time.

The sun goes down entirely, leaving us driving in the dark and the rain. It leaves me little to do for the next few hours but observe how he drives, which could charitably be called "like a maniac", but he seems plenty familiar with this road. I've ridden with far less safe drivers, people with the twilight all but swallowing them whole, and it's not as if a car crash can kill me or do me lasting harm, so I'm able to sit back and savor what's _good_ about riding with him: most significantly, the deep, quiet bond between Shaun and his van.

Shaun's not on the brink of the twilight tonight; I wasn't called up from the ghostroads with a charge to save his life or shepherd his soul. But I can feel the love and intimacy, sorrow-tinged, that flow between him and the vehicle carrying us through the night. There's a faith there that's been tested and held fast, and the right kind of death would make a phantom rider of them, easy as pie.

As afterlives go, mine's not too shabby, but I still wouldn't wish it on anyone. I offer up a quick hope that when death finds him, it won't be on the road.

\----------

_So many diners and road stops gone, now, leaving haunted shells. The Rising poured ghosts out into the world at a speed that staggered us, and changed the afterworld--the type of ghost someone can become is determined by what tore them from their too-mortal flesh, and zombies were a brand-new thing, dreamed of but never seen until 2014. The cultural mythos was all that made the influx bearable, at least here in America. Other parts of the world, I daresay things shook out differently._

_Most of those gutted diners still stand, haunted by their failures and loss. Even if the human ghosts have passed on, the walls sometimes whisper stories of how their occupants' last meals were each other._

_But the diners that still stand are all the more powerful, now, fortified in the daylight and in all the levels below. The hands of the living strengthened their walls, fenced their parking lots, and still carry guns along the perimeter. The surviving stops along the road are mostly homes, now, with small communities building up around them, huddled for warmth and safety._

_The folks who live and work in those places have a calling. They hold the roads and bones of America together. Towns and cities might have lived without them, but not for long. Food and goods have to move, and their drivers need roads and sanctuaries from the dark._

\--------

Hours pass, gradually growing more companionable. The rain lulls Shaun too, and after a while he says he wants music to help him stay focused, but he gets me to choose what we listen to. I dig up a truly old-school 1980s rock station from the radio streams--I may not be up on all the tech, but music in cars, I can always do--and reward Shaun's startled glance by singing along quietly, at least enough of each song to make it clear I know 'em all.

It's only a few hours before dawn when Shaun turns the music down and tells me we need to stop for gas. I check the clock, and more subtly touch base with the road itself, confirming my feeling that we're only an hour or so away from the rest stop where I asked him to drop me off, one where plenty of roads still connect. It's one of a double-handful of spots where I wouldn't be at all surprised to find another ghost or two on the premises.

The gas station where we pull in sits beside the scarred spot where a diner once stood, one that wasn't so lucky. The folks who run the station have done what they can to keep safe; the diner's daylight self has been reduced to rubble, leaving nowhere for the undead to lurk in search of a meal. If I squint out the window, I can just see the shadow of its ghost, still standing in the twilight. My heart aches for it.

There's two layers of fencing around what's still standing. The inner wall surrounds the station itself, and without a blood test you can't get in to fill your tank, stock your cooler, or empty your bladder in more privacy and safety than the roadside. The outer fence is meters away from it, providing a wide area for tired drivers to stop and sleep without hassling the attendants, although vehicles have to stay way back from the gate entrances.

"Hey," I say after the outer gate's closed behind us. I nod towards the empty open area. "Can we stop there for a sec?"

"Sure. Need to stretch your legs?" Shaun drives us the twenty meters or so we need to be away from the gates to stop, and kills the engine.

The smile I turn on him comes easy, as it damn well ought to with all the practice I've had. "Actually, I was thinking about paying you back for the ride."

Shaun snorts and rubs his eyes. "I don't want any money, Rose."

"Well, that works out, seeing as I've got no money to offer."

The tired look he turns on me is endearingly and utterly blank. A long moment passes before comprehension crosses his face. "Shit!" he exclaims, not quite recoiling. "No, I'm...I'm good. Uh. Thanks."

I study him, trying to parse his reaction. Usually when a man twitches away as if I've burned him, he'll have judgment in his eyes--a look I've seen a hundred times, one that says they've stopped seeing me as a _girl_ and started thinking _whore_. I'm coming up on a century of observing people, seeing what they want or need out of situations like the one we're in, and I see no sign of judgment in the way Shaun's looking at me. All my experience and intuition are telling me he's the kind of guy who'd be more than fine with casual sex if it wouldn't mean betraying someone else. He seems the sort to enjoy my body and be good to me in turn, no expectations and no hard feelings.

And dammit, I can barely remember the last time I got laid, with rides so few and far between, and Shaun's very easy on the eyes. More importantly, he's got strong hands and what I'm positive is a wonderfully sensitive mouth.

"You sure?" I ask. "No strings, no charge, no messiness." With some men, this'd be the time for a coy flutter of eyelashes. I don't get the sense that'd do much save make him more uncomfortable, so I opt for maximum bluntness instead. "And you look like you could use a good fuck."

Color spills into his cheeks. "Right, and you're how old? Like, eighteen? A great judge of what a guy needs?"

"I'm older than I look." Truer words were never spoken. "And you're not so old yourself, are you?"

"Twenty-three."

I grin. "Then you're not robbing the cradle if you screw me, cross my heart." Not in any way that matters, even if my fleeting body is sweet sixteen forever. And God, I'm in need of human warmth, a truly living body touching my borrowed one. "Or hell, I can give you a blowjob if you'd rather, and you can think about anything or anyone you please. Still no strings. You did something real nice for me; let me do something nice for you. That's all it'd be." I'm betting the test built into the van doors checks for a wider range of things than just KA and would let him know if I were carrying some less-deadly infection I could pass on, so I don't raise that issue.

Then I shut up, both to avoid scaring him off further and to keep from pushing him into it--if either is possible with this boy, who by my reckoning might be shamed into things or persuaded to change his mind, but who'd be stubborn as all hell in the face of pressure or intimidation.

Emotions war on Shaun's face, but eventually he whispers, "Okay." There's something in there I can't read, but not like he's forcing himself.

"Okay," I reply. I unbuckle my seatbelt and go to him, lean down to press a kiss to his lips.

From there, I err on the side of caution and get on my knees, leaving it up to him whether to turn this into anything but a hard cock in my mouth--and that's exactly what I find waiting for me when I undo his jeans. I stroke him a little anyway, kissing his hipbones, until he's gasping with need.

And then I blow him, trying to make it good, but he comes too fast and desperate for it to be my best work. He doesn't apologize for that, but when I look up, his cheeks are flushed again. "It's kinda been a while," he says, not meeting my eyes.

"How long?"

"June 18." He doesn't hesitate on the date, but then he freezes, like he's let something slip.

"I already said I'm not gonna dig into your business, Shaun." I'm careful to keep my voice gentle. There's something unexpectedly fragile here, something I don't want to bruise or worse.

I lean on his thigh instead of saying more, enjoying his body heat and the taste of his come--which to my tongue means _life_. I never gave head as a living girl, but it didn't take me long after my death to acquire a taste for a man's pleasure, or a woman's, or to learn that everyone has their own flavor. If Shaun picks me up on another roadside in a few decades' time and we dance this dance again, I'll know him by his name and his taste.

After a silence, he says, "I remember the date because my sister died two days later." He's watching me closely, looking to see if I'll know him from that; when I shake my head, relief seeps into his eyes...followed by grief so naked and raw I ache with sympathy. However his sister died, he loved her so hard that it's eating him up inside.

"She's who you meant earlier." It's obvious, and I take care not to sound questioning. Momentary confusion crosses Shaun's face until he remembers telling me he's not used to living passengers. "Now, I'm a good listener," I continue, gathering my hair back with one hand. "But telling me you lost someone you love doesn't mean you've got to tell me about it."

Shaun nods acknowledgment, and takes me at my word.

His jeans are still unzipped. After a moment's consideration and a glance at the clock, I put my hand back on his lap. He shivers but doesn't protest, so I reposition myself so I'm breathing over his cock while I fondle it, all softness and vulnerability. He lets me do that, and then, when he starts getting hard again, he lets me lick the shaft, slow and sweet, until my mouth is full again.

This time I make it fucking amazing for him, take the care that tons of living folk would be more likely to if it wouldn't mean spending the next two days with an aching jaw or a crick in their neck. Those aren't considerations for me.

Shaun buries his hands in my hair without trying to push or direct me--something few men seem to ever properly get the hang of. Either he's a natural at getting head or he's had sexual courtesy drilled into him from the first day someone touched his prick.

He stops me before he comes again, touching his fingertips to my jaw. "Rose, I can't--" He breaks off and wets his lips to try again. "This is damn selfish. I'm sorry."

I slide my mouth off him gently. "Not okay with getting it up for someone who can't fill a hole in your heart?" I ask, telling him with my eyes that it's a sincere question despite the stiff cock in my hand, glistening with my spit.

"It's a fucking deep hole," he says. "Pretty sure if I tried to screw you or think hard enough to do much of anything I'd be a wreck."

"Then don't think." I kiss the head of his cock, sloppy and hot. I'm so damn horny, and knowing I'm not gonna be getting fucked with it doesn't make me appreciate that fine cock one whit less. "It's been a long time for me, too."

We look at each other, me and that boy with the calloused hands and the scarred eyes, and he gives me a slow nod. I wrap my lips back around his dick and shove a hand down my own jeans--no way I'm asking him to take care of me like that, not when my best guess is he'd feel obliged and then maybe have himself a good cry over it once he's alone.

Blowjobs can be almost ungodly intimate, or utterly anonymous; if I had any money to my name I'd bet it all that Shaun's eyes are closed so he can pretend something I won't even try to imagine. I'm getting what I want from him, and I can only hope he's getting something good from me too.

This time he lets me finish the job for both of us. I swallow his life down and take my own pleasure, and then I sit back on my heels and wipe my fingers on my jeans, aiming to leave no trace of myself once I'm gone.

I get off my knees and sink back into the passenger seat, sitting sideways to face him. His eyes are shut, leaving me free to study his face.

He looks so awfully young, despite the shadows of grief, but he's no child to be soothed by a kiss on a scrape--and no matter what people like to imagine, no roll in the hay can heal a shattered heart. That's well beyond the power of even the best blowjob a well-meaning hitcher with ninety years of experience can give.

"You okay?" I ask quietly, though he's plainly not.

"As okay as I get."

"You're still carrying her." Again, it's not a guess, but sometimes we all need to hear our truths on someone else's lips, alive or dead.

Shaun's eyes open again and look in my direction, but he's not seeing me. "I always will."

I assured him I wouldn't pry, so I don't ask, _Do you think she'd want that?_ If she loved him half as much as he loves her, she wouldn't, and he most likely knows that.

We all want to be remembered and cherished, but when confronted with the reality of a loved one's desolation and sorrow, most ghosts who aren't blinded by their own patterns and needs--think of homecomers--wouldn't inflict that ongoing, destructive grief on them. Clinging to our natural desire for their love to endure eternally, unchanging, goes beyond selfishness and into cruelty.

If Shaun's sister _had_ wanted that after her death, she'd probably still be here with us right now. But we're alone.

\--------

Shaun pulls himself together in short order, although he seems to have to talk himself silently through it at first. He doesn't say anything about what just happened between us. After he takes a blood test to get us past the second gate and fills up the van's tank, he asks if I want anything from inside while he goes to pay. I'm glad to see there's no guilty tightness in the offer, that it's something he'd ask me regardless.

"Coffee?" I ask. "Black, two sugars."

"Sure." He climbs out, leaving me alone with the van and whatever he's got stashed in it--but then, I've got no bags and no place I could hide anything I might steal from him, and he knows there's nowhere I could go that he couldn't find me if I tried to rip him off.

While I wait, I reach out and stroke the van's dash, inviting it to share anything it might want to.

I'm not expecting the power of the resonance I get back, and can't help gasping aloud. The van whispers to me about blood, and about love and grief so strong they make my jaw clench against them. There may be no ghost here, no supernatural presence but mine, but this vehicle's as haunted as its driver.

Here. She died _here_.

I keep my hand on the dash, caressing it, coaxing out the story the van wants to tell. The miasma of blood and heartbreak and love that rises around me is so thick I can taste it when I breathe, but I'm braced for it now. I don't react. I just open myself to the fractured impressions the van can give me...

...and what is gives me is a love story, one not only about itself and Shaun. There's a woman's voice tangled with Shaun's, her grip equally familiar and beloved on the steering wheel. Layers and layers of history overlaid on each other, seeping together into a mosaic of all the emotions that fill any relationship that runs deep. The three of them together, bound by trust and love.

And blood, the van whispers without words. So much blood. Her _death_ blood, with all the power that can bring to bear.

The past floods my vision, maybe all the more awful for how fragmented it is. I haven't laid eyes on the back of the van, but I see it now: the spray and spatter of blood on the ceiling and walls, drips and smears on the floor. And the wreckage of a woman's body, the smell of Shaun's fired gun, and his silent howl of grief. Those unvoiced screams will haunt this poor loyal van, that cradled and protected them both so long and faithfully, until both it and Shaun are as dead as she is.

I've seen worse.

What makes me shut my eyes is something I'm no more able to reconcile myself to now than I was in the first days of the Rising, when people began to realize all the implications of the virus ravaging the world.

Often the only grace we find in death is to not be alone as we go. Having Shaun with her until the very moment that gunshot turned her body to ruined meat meant that girl was blessed in a way too few are. But I've held too many hands until the moment that threshold was crossed to not know the value of being _touched_ ; I know all too well the difference it makes to both the departing soul and the person left behind to mourn. That girl--woman--Shaun and this van loved so dearly died within Shaun's reach, and him no more able to touch her than if she'd been on the other side of the world.

All of that passes through me in a heartbeat, and then it's gone. Anger stiffens my spine--anger with no target, just the helpless raging against a fresh cruelty added to a world that already held too much pain, for the living and dead alike.

By the time Shaun unlocks the driver's-side door and climbs in, handing me a steaming cup of coffee, the moment's passed. His sister's death was awful, but it's long over. All I can hope for her is that her soul's more at rest than his.

I smile prettily and thank him, and we're off down the highway again.

\----------

We reach the rest stop with nearly two hours to spare before sunrise. It's been a year or more since I was in there, but nothing's changed while I've been gone. We're in the deep gray time when the overnight lull is slowest. Only five booths are occupied--two by folks sleeping at the tables, well away from anyone else--and there's one long-haul trucker sitting at the counter letting a piece of lemon meringue pie melt in his mouth, bite by bite. The lone waitress in sight is reading on her tablet, but the smell of bacon (turkey bacon, if you want to quibble, but that goes without saying these years) lingers in the air.

My mouth waters desperately. I didn't ask Shaun for food back at the gas station, knowing we'd be here so soon, and my belly's keenly aware that a girl can't live on Coke and coffee alone, even for a night.

The waitress glances up as we approach the counter, and says, "Make yourselves at home, and I'll bring you menus. Coffee?"

Shaun and I both hesitate. When I glance at him, he looks conflicted, but not like it's got anything to do with me. "Yeah," he says slowly, as if giving himself permission. "Coffee'd be fantastic." Without looking at me, he adds, "Get whatever you want, Rose."

"Then I'd _love_ a cup of coffee." I smile and ask, "Who's working the grill tonight?"

Shaun makes a startled noise, but the waitress--Janine, her name tag says; I don't recognize her--doesn't bat an eye. "That'd be Leanna."

And oh, this is my lucky night. Leanna makes a mean egg skillet and better fries, and her wife's the child of a routewitch. That's one of the scant benefits of there being fewer places since the Rising where a weary traveler can find refuge: those among the living who truly know the ways of the roads are a tad less scattered, giving me halfway decent chances of finding a welcome from someone who knows my kind.

In this case, that means someone who knows _me_ , if not well. "Could you maybe tell her Rose is here?"

"Sure thing, honey," she says, and heads around back.

She didn't side-eye me, but Shaun does. "You know the cook?"

"Told you I'm older than I look, didn't I?"

We take a seat, and when Janine come by with coffee and menus, her smile's warm and her eyes are bright with curiosity. "Leanna says to eat all you want, on the house. Both of you."

It's more generous than I'd hoped for. From the way my stomach rumbles, it's got big dreams. "That's awfully good of her," I say. "Thank you."

"Guess I don't need to worry about you here," Shaun says when we're alone again.

"It's sweet that it crossed your mind."

He makes a face at me, then says, "If it's cool with you, I think I'm gonna get some work done, catch a few hours of sleep in the van, and head back towards home."

"Absolutely fine," I assure him. The truth is, I'm more than a little worried about _him_. Maybe there's nothing I can do to ease the weight on him, poor kid, but good food and quiet company seem like they won't hurt.

"Good food" is an understatement. What arrives, not too long at all after we've ordered, is a perfect plate of nachos, a heap of crisp fries that smells like heaven in a basket, and a triple-decker club sandwich for me and a plate of fish tacos for Shaun.

We both tuck in. Shaun puts it away with the speed of someone who rarely spends much time sitting down to eat, so I'm still working my way through my meal when his is just a memory, other than however many more nachos or fries he goes for. He gets a third top-up on his coffee, pulls out a laptop, and starts typing at a breakneck pace. I sit back, munch happily, and soak up the atmosphere.

Just before dawn, Leanna herself comes by our table. Shaun's on the phone by then--or VOIP, whatever, through his laptop--talking to someone in London, which I wouldn't have guessed. He puts his call on hold long enough to thank her for the meal, and then gives the strong impression that he's not paying us any mind at all. _Too_ strong an impression; I'm pretty sure he's at least halfway listening in.

Leanna gives me a small, quick smile and holds up a long-sleeved button-down shirt. "Rosie, that sweater is swimming on you," she says. "Let me give you this."

The pressure of sunrise is almost palpable against my skin. I peel Shaun's sweater off, making sure not to accidentally let my hand pass through anything as I set the garment aside and turn intangible. Leanna's all but holding her breath while I pretend to dither. She knows all about a hitcher's party trick, but from the look in her eyes, she's never seen it in action.

"Thank you," I say at last, when the critical moment passes and a new day is upon us, even if the sun isn't visible outside yet. She hands me the shirt and I shrug it on, shivering with the cold that permeated my nonexistent bones in those few minutes without flesh and blood to warm me.

I take a deep, delicious breath, trying not to think about how my stomach's empty now, but Leanna just smiles again. "Can I get you anything else?" she asks.

"You sure?" She nods, and I sigh happily. "Chicken and veg skillet, please. And hash browns and a vanilla shake."

From the startled twitch in Shaun's shoulders, I was right about him paying attention. I grin outright as he ends his call, giving me a once-over that clearly says _Where the fuck will you **put** it all?_ "And pie for me and my friend," I add. "Whatever's best."

Looking a tad uncomfortable, he interjects. "Actually, Rose, if you're sure you're okay, I was thinking I'd go back to the van and hit the sack."

"He'll take his to go, then. He's got a long ride home when he wakes up."

"Then I'll pack him something extra," Leanna says. Shaun opens his mouth, and she shakes her head firmly. "Least we can do is send you on your way with a full stomach, after you brought Rose all this way."

"She already thanked me plenty," Shaun says, not looking at me. He's not blushing, but something in his voice conveys the same effect.

Leanna chuckles. "And I'm sure she was very sweet about it, but you're still getting pie." A shadow passes over her eyes as she looks at him, and Shaun glances up in time to see it. His face stills.

"Thank you." It's a different kind of awkwardness now. Leanna gives him a quick nod, squeezes my shoulder, and hurries back to the kitchen.

When this round of food arrives--mine on plates, Shaun's in a bag that _has_ to have half a pie in it--he thanks Janine for bringing it over, and then says, "So yeah. About sleep."

We exchange thank-yous and goodbyes, and nothing else; no touching and no contact info. He doesn't bolt for the door, but I'm pretty sure he wants to, and as far as I can tell it's because he thinks Leanna's recognized him, whoever he is, not because his cock was in my mouth only a few hours ago.

Instead, he leaves at a too-casual amble that's probably convincing to most people, and then he's gone.

I eat my breakfast, savoring every bite, and sit back to people-watch as folks come and go. Maybe later I'll feel compelled to catch a ride with someone in particular, or maybe from here I'll drop back down to the ghostroads, but for now my options are as open before me as the road itself.


End file.
